Anything But Temptation
by guns and butter
Summary: Collection of generally unrelated Siriuscentered stories, based on Oscar Wilde quotes. SiriusJames, Siriusother, peanuts. Epilogue: If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.
1. Children begin by loving their parents

This is the first part of _Anything But Temptation_, a great big (mostly unrelated) collection of stories centered around lines by the ever-quotable Oscar Wilde. I am also working on _Things That Never Were_, which is roughly the same, but draws on quotes by George Bernard Shaw. If you have a particular quote you'd like me to use, feel free to suggest it, and I'll see what I can do.

"_Children begin by loving their parents. After a time they judge them. Rarely, if ever, do they forgive them."_

**i.**

Altair Black is not running late.

A Black never running late. A Black never hurries, or rushes, or frets over the hour. A Black is always perfectly on time.

Altair himself is always precisely where he intends to be. At the moment, he intends to be standing in the doorway of his eldest son's bedroom, watching Sirius adjust himself in the dresser-mirror.

He watches as the boy pulls back his hair, tying it neatly at the nape of his neck. One of the house-elves must have helped him to lengthen it. His hair is a nuisance at its regular length, Sirius claims, because it falls into his eyes and distracts him while he's fencing. Altair suspects his son simply enjoys the change, but this particular hint of eccentricity is harmless enough. And the boy _is_ dedicated to his fencing.

Sirius favors his father in most respects. His boyish face is already chiseled with the sharp lines of aristocracy; he has Altair's mouth, his nose, his strong jaw. His eyes are his mother's, wide and pale, edged with long dark lashes that hint at innocence and fragility. _A liar's eyes_, Altair thinks, a bit cynically.

Those eyes have spotted him in the mirror. Altair moves to stand behind his son, never turning his gaze from their reflection. "Are you prepared for the tournament?"

Sirius nods, quicksilver eyes darting to meet his father's in the mirror. "Yes, Father."

Of its own accord, Altair's hand moves to tuck back a wayward strand of his son's hair, then comes to rest on Sirius's shoulder. The boy is thin still; Altair can feel the definition of the bone. He will have another growth spurt within the year, perhaps two. Altair supposes his son will have his own build, broad and muscular. Someday he'll make an excellent Beater for Slytherin. Altair nearly smiles to think of it.

"You'll be taller than your mother, soon," he says, surprising himself. Sirius nods again; Altair can see him processing.

He glances at his son's fencing equipment, gleaming where it lies waiting on the bed. Noting the swords Sirius has laid out, he amends his earlier statement. "Provided you survive your brother's wrath when he realizes you've stolen his best rapier."

Blood rushes to Sirius's face, flushing the high cheekbones.

(His emotions are forever writ large upon his countenance; Altair makes a note to address this in the future.)

Culpability thus betrayed, Altair is satisfied to see that the boy does not speak to defend himself, nor does he look away from his father's steady regard.

Altair allows himself a brief moment of pride in his son—in his heir, with his flawless manners and confident comportment and exemplary skill with a blade. They have raised him well, priming him for the role he will play as the heir to the House of Black. Slytherin, yes—a Beater and a prefect, no doubt. Perhaps Head Boy.

He does smile, then, and briefly tightens his fingers on his son's shoulder before releasing him. "Come. We wouldn't want to keep your competitors waiting."

**ii.**

"This is madness. You're all barking."

"Barking, am I? You're the one who shows no respect for your own blood! Honestly, it makes me _sick_ the way you run around with those mudbloods—you and your band of half-breeds and blood traitors—"

"Those half-breeds and blood traitors are better wizards than most purebloods could ever dream of being!"

Altair chooses this moment to make his presence known.

"Sirius. Regulus."

His sons whirl to face him, stunned into silence at the severe command underlining their names. Shame immediately dampens the anger blazed across Regulus's face. Sirius's face is, unsurprisingly, inscrutable.

"What is going on here?"

The brothers spare each other a quick look.

"Regulus and I are having a bit of a dialogue." Sirius seems to be testing the boundaries of impenitence.

"I see." Altair arches a dark brow. He notes that this sign of his displeasure still has an effect on both of his sons. "If you two dialogue any louder, you're going to disturb your mother, and no doubt half of London."

The boys glance up the staircase, to the darkened upper floors of the house.

Altair represses the urge to sigh. "Regulus, you are excused. Sirius, come with me."

He knows without looking that the boy will fall into step behind him as he begins to ascend the stairs. He traces the path to his study from memory, contemplating the situation with his sons.

Sirius has become intolerably defiant. His every word is colored with insolence, his every action laced with insubordination.

Regulus, once devoted to mimicking his brother's every move, is now his most outspoken critic. While Altair approves of his youngest son's sentiments, the resulting arguments are becoming insufferable. Hardly a day passes that does not find the two of them quarreling. Their rows have begun to overstep the boundaries of proper breeding, with hissed insults in the dining room and, now, shouting matches in the entrance hall.

Entering his study, he sits heavily at his desk, and takes a moment to brace himself before dealing with his mutinous heir.

Sirius does not sit down across from Altair, but instead stands silently just inside the door. He has grown to be nearly as tall as his father, but leaner, a narrow silhouette flickering against the background of dark cedar and books. His face is narrower than it was when he arrived from Hogwarts

_(he loses weight every time he returns home—a faithful diet of disapproval and resentment)_

and his features stand out starkly in the candlelight. The last month has leached all but the barest hint of a Quidditch tan from his skin, leaving him naturally pale.

Altair resigns himself to a difficult discussion.

"Sirius." The boy meets his gaze wordlessly

_(always, always it is a shock—Estelle's wild eyes staring out of his son's face)_

and Altair indicates the empty chair with a curt gesture of his hand. "Sit down."

Sirius crosses the room and slips into the chair. His movements are those of a Chaser, swift and deliberate. Altair examines him for a moment before continuing. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

There is a long pause. He is beginning to believe that the boy will ignore him

_(such rebellion, such unbearable disloyalty in those icy pureblood eyes)_

before finally Sirius shrugs, a surprisingly inelegant jerk of wiry shoulders. "Nothing I've not said before. I…" He hesitates, looks away. Shrugs again. "I make no apologies."

Despite himself, Altair bristles at the boy's impudence. "You would do well to consider it," he says coldly. "I will not tolerate such disrespect toward your brother or toward your heritage."

Contempt flashes across Sirius's face

_(a Black does not show emotions—he never, never learned)_

blatant and damning in the moments before he recalls his mask of disinterest. "The truth is disrespectful, then?"

"You are wholly ignorant of the matters you presume to comprehend." He pauses, observing the angry set of the boy's jaw. "You _will_ not utter your misguided convictions in this house. Do you understand?"

Sirius does not answer. His eyes are closed. His fingers grip the carved arms of the chair—tightening and releasing, tightening and releasing.

Altair is losing patience. "Do you understand?" he repeats, voice harsh in the heavy silence that has fallen.

The boy's eyes snap open.

"Yes," he says, his pale face dark with condemnation. "I understand."

For an instant, Altair thinks he looks a little mad

_(Estelle shrieking in her sleep, weeping, fingernails like claws as she lashes out)_

with the intensity and the fire in his gaze. Perhaps it is a trick of the light.

**iii.**

At first, he doesn't recognize it.

The drawers of his father's desk are neat and systematically organized. Quills, ink, parchment—everything in its place. Altair Black despised chaos. Sirius supposes that's why they never got on well.

He doesn't know what he expected to find, rummaging through his father's drawers—Dark artifacts, cursed relics, perhaps a boggart or a swarm of doxies. Certainly not an old fencing medal, tucked out of sight beneath a stack of forgotten Ministry reports.

He is surprised to find _any_ reminder of himself remaining in 12 Grimmauld Place. From what he understands, the family eradicated all traces of their disowned heir from the house.

He turns it over and over in his hand, as if daring it to reveal its true nature. Surely his father would not have kept that damn silly medal. Altair was far from being a sentimental man. He would hardly have held on to a worthless fencing medallion as a keepsake of his disinherited son.

_And yet, here it is._

Sirius shakes his head, mystified. Perhaps he's mistaken. Perhaps it's not his, after all—one of Regulus's, more likely, except that Regulus was rubbish at fencing and would sooner have swallowed his blade than won a tournament.

(Sirius always attributed this to a lack of the necessary athletic dexterity; of course, that was before Regulus made the Slytherin team and began to display a stunning prowess for breaking his brother's bones with well-aimed Bludgers.)

_Why_ would his father have kept it? Sirius frowns, absently tracing the engravings with his fingertips. Why, out of the numerous medals Sirius won, would Altair have chosen to keep this one? Why keep any?

Sirius shrugs, finally. Why did his father do _anything_, really? The man was a mystery—a mad old pureblood enigma. Probably he was planning to curse it at some point, like every other bloody heirloom of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

Somehow, this doesn't seem to be enough.

"You old crazy bastard," he mutters, staring at his broken reflection in the silver gleam of the medal. "Why'd you do it?" Predictably, there is no reply.

He arches an eyebrow in frustration. It looks familiar.


	2. One should absorb the colour of life

See first part for notes about this collection of stories.

Summary: What do you _really_ think of in the moments before death?

Disclaimer: I am but a poor college student. Please don't sue me.

_"One should absorb the colour of life, but one should never remember its details. Details are always vulgar."_

**red**

Lily's hair in the sun, tangled tightly around his fingers, a loose copper cloud across her pillow

scandalous pout of kiss-bruised lips, gray eyes dark with want need hunger

roses on Valentine's Day, hours pestering Peter about Muggle traditions, the breath-taking reward of Lily's smile

warm slippery blood, slick between his hands and Sirius's skin, _oh fuck oh shit oh please please not him not now I'm sorry I'm sorry just please please please not him_

flutter of Quidditch robes, vivid against blue sky

flushed skin, hot hard silk under his hands, muscles straining, long ragged moan against his shoulder

**black**

soft downy hair against his fingertips, the fragile eggshell curve of Harry's head in his hand

Forbidden Forest, dark blurs in the shadows, howls echoing through the trees

sea of mourning at his parents' funeral, tired faces drawn with fear, warm comforting hand on his shoulder

shaggy warm fur, nipping teeth, slobbering puppy kisses on his face

deserted hallways at midnight, rustle of the Invisibility Cloak, panting, grasping, the searing velvet slide of that mouth

**green**

Lily's eyes, Harry's eyes, crying smiling happy

dew-soaked grass, wet against his back, sunrise kisses bitter with nicotine and firewhiskey

dodged curses, long fingers twisted in his Auror robes, the sharp taste of adrenaline, _fuck that was close_

gasping swallows of absinthe, burning, drunken giggling, _long live the Marauders!_

**white**

full moon, running chasing across the grounds, wrestling in the grass, drunk with freedom

Lily's robes, ethereal at twilight, gentle fingers entwined with his, _I do I do I do_

fine translucent skin stretched too tight over bone, hot tears against his neck, _you're all I fucking have_

**green—**


	3. True friends stab you in the front

See first part for notes about this collection of stories.

Disclaimer: I am but a poor college student. Please don't sue me.

_"True friends stab you in the front."_

The world has gone silent.

Everyone has always told him what a quick mind he has. His family has demanded it, his professors have tried to discipline it, and his friends have used it to their advantage. The Muggle-borns and half-bloods look on him with awe. They all say he's brilliant. They say he's too clever for his own good. Probably they're right. After all, he's only ever met one person who understands a damn thing he says.

His brilliant clever pureblood mind stutters in the silence as he tries and fails fails fails to comprehend.

It's cold, and it's silent, and he just

_(strong calloused hands, warm skin, whispered words against his collarbone)_

cannot

_(gleaming red hair, delicate fingers, soft pretty curves he will never never have)_

think.

James is watching him. Waiting. James's hands are trembling, a little, which might be important. Supremely important, maybe. It could be that this is the most important detail of his entire life, if only he could think about it.

And what he wants, more than anything, is to find a word for this—to name it, so that he knows how to feel.

But he only knows what it's not. It's not _anguish_. It's not _pain_, and it's not _misery_. It's not _despair_, or _agony_, or even _desperation_. It's not anything, really, but the world is very silent and very cold, and he can't think—can't speak—can't breathe.

There is no air and no sound and no warmth, and there is a bitter taste in his mouth that might be madness.

_Betrayal_.

The thought comes from nowhere. His mind zeroes in it, scrutinizing it, magnifying it until there is room for nothing else. He clings to the word—grabs it up and holds it close

_(long limbs, soft cotton sheets, the reassurance of a pulsing heartbeat under his hand)_

and thinks it over and over, _betrayal betrayal betrayal_.

They come in a tumble then, _hate love fuck bitch broken alone Mercutio bastard hopeless_, a torrent of words with no meaning. They flood his mind with thoughts he can't process, emotions he can't feel. Maybe this is what is wrong with his mother—but he can't think about that, either.

And he is so tired of feeling helpless, so tired of _can't_, and so finally he does the last thing he could never do.

He walks away.

And James's voice not calling him back is the loudest thing he's ever heard.

But but but—his mind falters. But James is dead. They're both dead. Together. He killed them. Maybe it was revenge.

James is dead, cold and dead and gone, and somewhere there is a little boy with messy black hair and green eyes.

It is very, very cold. Someone is weeping.

He rests his head against the icy stones and swallows hard against the taste of surrender.


	4. When the gods wish to punish us

See first part for notes about this collection of stories.

Disclaimer: I am but a poor college student. Please don't sue me.

_"When the gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers."_

The room is blazing with daylight as he opens his eyes, blinking hard. It is too much, too bright—it is painful to behold. Light reflects off the walls, the mirror, the long pale stretch of James's back, and Sirius closes his eyes.

The air is heavy still with the scent of sex. His muscles ache with strain and barely sated need—he is exhausted, but his body still wants. He longs to reach across the sheets and pull James to him, bury his face in James's neck, breathe and breathe and breathe the other man's scent. But he doesn't. He won't.

The sun is warm on his lips.

_James. James._ He cannot go back to sleep, not with James in his bed. His body wants. _James._

He can't help but listen to the slow shallow rhythm of the other man's breathing.

He's a fucking wanker, James is, and when he wakes up, he is going to get out of bed and pull on his clothes and go back to Lily, as always. He always goes, and he always comes back.

_But which one of us does he come back to?_

He's an absolute bastard. (Sirius knows this, has always known it.) He is a selfish, treacherous weasel with no regard for anyone's feelings but his own. And he is a bloody idiot, and a traitor, and he's got arse for brains, but he's all Sirius has.

The great sodding git is still the man

_(the boy)_

who would leap into fistfights on Sirius's behalf,

who used to snatch away every letter emblazoned with the Black crest and explode the damn thing before Sirius could read it,

who stroked and petted and murmured nonsense to him while his hands still shook from his mother's goodbye curse,

who fucked him up against the wall in a dozen empty classrooms, hissing and gasping his name like it hurt to say.

Sirius stares at the inside of his eyelids and tries not to think.

All his life, he has felt so old—prematurely aged and disillusioned by the House of Black. Now, at nineteen

_(crippled with desperation and uncertainty in his own bed)_

he feels impossibly young. Immature. Vulnerable.

He wants to rage, wants to hit and scream and throw things until the windows break and the ceiling falls and his throat is in shreds. He wants to, but he doesn't. He won't.

For seven years, James was his. James was his closest friend, his only family, his truest lover. James was James, the arrogant troublemaking bastard who plotted with him and scuffled with him and kissed him breathless while poring over the Map. James was his entire fucking world.

Now James is a husband, and soon will be a father, the head of a proper grown-up family unit. James is an adult now, maybe, and Sirius trails along in his wake, lost and bewildered by the brutally abrupt end of their era.

James is not his.

When James leaves, Sirius will tell him not to come back. He will tell him to go home to his wife, his fucking gorgeous pregnant wife, and to stay with her. He will tell him to forget every kiss, every moan, every last fumbling grope of fingers heavy with lust. He will tell him never to mention it again.

He will tell him, _These are the rules, now._

He will refuse to listen to James's reasoning, or his arguments, or his pleas. He will watch him leave. He will curl up on James's side of the bed, and he will let out a great shuddering breath.

He will pray to whoever is listening that James will break the rules just once more.

There is movement on the other side of the bed. Sirius risks opening his eyes again, and glances over to see the gleam of hazel underneath a flicker of dark lashes. His breath catches; he stares

_(wanting needing hating)_

for just a moment too long, until his eyes fill with tears from the sunlight's glare and he has to close them.

The sheets rustle, as intimate as James's voice whispering, "Good morning."

Under his closed eyelids, his eyes are still watering. _Don't leave me, don't leave me, don't leave me…_

A firm hand nudges his shoulder, and he submits, rolling to his side. He can't help himself. James's arm slides warm and heavy over his waist. Steamy breath ghosts over his neck. James is behind him, around him, flush against his back and entwined with him in a tangle of overwarm limbs.

A tear rolls hot and damning across the bridge of his nose. The sun is too bright; he can't look.


	5. The public is wonderfully tolerant

See first part for notes about this collection of stories.

Disclaimer: I am but a poor college student. Please don't sue me.

"_The public is wonderfully tolerant. It forgives everything except genius."_

"I expect by now you have all heard the news."

Albus seems old, tonight. His face is drawn, heavy with strain and weariness. As he addresses his staff, he is graver than Minerva has ever seen him—graver even than on that bleak night twelve years ago. She can hardly blame him. It is a dark matter of which he speaks, a subject which draws out long-buried memories of fear and suspicion and grief.

Albus pauses, scanning the gathered professors with a shrewd gaze. Minerva knows he is debating whether or not to say the words. Breathing deep, he finally announces, "Sirius Black has escaped from Azkaban."

Something twists low and throbbing in Minerva's stomach, and she looks away.

She takes the moment to look at her colleagues. Severus looks sullen, which is not unusual, but there seems to be a certain spite to his scowl this evening. It makes her skin crawl. His usual moodiness is laced with Something. Something dark and brutal. Something that smacks of animosity

_("Thirty points from Gryffindor! Mr. Snape, get yourself to the Infirmary Wing, quickly now—help him, Mr. Avery—")_

and bile

_("You'll regret this, you bastards—you fucking blood-traitors, you'll pay for this—")_

and a long-standing rivalry with a dead man and a traitor.

_Severus, will you never forgive?_

Minerva glances quickly away, disturbed by her thoughts. Her gaze lands on Remus, who sits quietly across the table, staring down at his lap.

_Oh, Remus._ What can he possibly be thinking at a time like this? Where do his thoughts lie?

With his dead best friends, perhaps, or with the man who killed them. With his troubled past, or with his uncertain future. With the moon

_(delicate now but gaining strength)_

or with the scars his students will question. With the man he loved and loves still, though he has never spoken the words.

No, this truth has never passed his lips. Perhaps he denies it, in the dark recesses of his mind and his heart. Perhaps he still hopes to forget. Perhaps he has simply accepted that his impossible love is destined for oblivion.

Minerva knows. She is an unmarried professor, an old woman with no family—but she was once a young woman in love. She knows the agony of a broken heart, the bitter taste of regret, and she aches for her former student.

She knows, too, how easy it was to love Sirius Black.

Her heart jolts, and the thought of the man so long imprisoned in Azkaban

_(filthy lank hair, wild eyes, high keening wail as the dementors close in)_

makes her shudder to her bones.

But.

Whatever he is now

_(mad, destroyed, broken shadow of a ruthless monster)_

the man who betrayed the Potters was once Sirius Black, the greatest heartbreaker Hogwarts had ever seen.

The heartless murderer was once a brilliant, captivating, beautiful boy—stunning in his confidence and his unfiltered charm.

He was Sirius Black, one of the golden boys of Gryffindor—blessed with a quick mind, a raw talent for Quidditch, and a glorious smile. He was someone to be imitated and worshipped. He was enchanting, impossible to hate. His allure was a thing of desire, infatuation, obsession. Girlfriends fought over him; boys trailed him like puppies.

Everyone loved him, for there was something about him that demanded nothing less than absolute devotion. _Trust me_, it said. _Trust me, love me—give me your heart and promise me your soul. I am everything you have ever wanted. I am everything you will ever need. Love me. Trust me._

But in the end, it didn't matter. Everyone wanted Sirius Black, and no one could have him. His love affairs were frequent, celebrated, and short. Girls fell over themselves to steal his love, but none could keep it. Black's heart belonged to no one.

Except, perhaps—

_(hand lingering just a moment too long, secretive curve of pretty lips, fleeting mysterious glint in hazel eyes)_

—but, no. Minerva is far too old for rumors.

And even if…even if. What does it matter, now? Now, after all that has happened?

(There is a part of her that insists that it matters very much indeed, that perhaps this could unravel the _Why_ that she so longs—aches—_needs_ to understand. But she finds, in the end, that she is afraid to know the truth.)

Sirius Black. The wild, lovely, irresistible Sirius Black.

By all rights, she should have disliked him, and Potter too. The two of them were like so many others she has seen: rich, spoiled, effortlessly talented and supremely arrogant. She should have been especially strict with them, as she is with all such students—determined to teach them the value of something other than money and power. She never taught Sirius and James that lesson.

But then

_("It was time for him to leave, Professor. So he left. He never belonged there."_

"_And you believe you know where he belongs?"_

"_Yeah. I do.")_

she thinks perhaps they learned it anyway.

Yes, she should have disliked them—but instead she loved them, from the day she became their Head of House

_(shoulders straight as he removes the hat, steely eyes revealing nothing, fingers cold as they brush hers)_

to the day they left Hogwarts, and beyond. Until

_("The Potters—James and Lily—they're—")_

until

_("It was him, Minerva—don't you understand? It was him. It was Sirius.")_

until.

_What happened to you, Sirius? Was everything truly a lie, all that time?_

She tells herself that they were not so special, after all. The Slytherins are similarly ambitious, and the Ravenclaws equally as clever. The Hufflepuffs are surely just as loyal, and all Gryffindors show that same senseless bravado. James Potter and Sirius Black were simply two bright, talented purebloods, like so many others.

They were nothing more than two adventurous young men, poised at the brink of legend

_("I expect you'll want to keep that signature, Professor—for when I'm famous, you know.")_

and now one is dead and one is a madman, and their legend is dead.

It is over. It is over.

But when she walks the halls of Hogwarts, she still finds herself looking for the familiar swagger of her favorite students.

(She dreams, sometimes, that he is innocent. It was all a mistake. It was not Sirius—never, never him. She always knew he could never betray James that way. In her dream, he is stricken and forlorn, heartbroken, a ghost of the boy she loved. He looks like a lost little child, and she takes him into her arms and holds him gently, the way his own mother never did. He is bony and fragile under her hands, shuddering like he might fly apart at any moment, and he weeps and weeps into her tartan skirts.)

She flattens her hands along her thighs to stop them trembling, and curses herself for ever trusting Sirius Black.


	6. Life not led

See first part for notes about this collection of stories.

Disclaimer: I am but a poor college student. Please don't sue me.

"_One's real life is often the life that one does not lead."_

**i.**

Sirius will arrive at any moment.

Relations are still tense between the three of them—but, slowly, things are beginning to change. After all, it is a time of sudden deaths and missing loved ones. In these times, there is no room for grudges.

Yes, Sirius will come soon. He will play with his godson for a while; the boy is mad for him, like everyone else. Then Lily will put Harry to bed, and the three of them will talk.

Sirius will update James and Lily on the outside world. He will fill them in on the war, and share the latest Order news. Perhaps, if he is in a particularly good mood, he will gossip for a while about Remus and Peter and their other former schoolmates.

Lily will make tea. Sirius will smile and accept the cup she offers him, then set it down on the side table and never touch it again.

Sirius will send him glances

_(quick hurt resigned)_

throughout the evening, and James will ignore them. Lily will hold his hand too tightly.

There will be a long, awkward pause at the end of the night

_("You know it can never be the same with us. Is that what you want?")_

until eventually Sirius gets to his feet, coughing a bit and claiming he's beat.

It's the same pattern every time.

Only this time, Sirius doesn't come.

James sits up most of the night, shrugging off Lily's pleas to come to bed.

He stares into the fire, watching the flames lick lower and lower. He thinks maybe he ought to throw on a log or two.

Remus taught them how to build a proper fire, once. It was winter; they had sneaked out, attempting to spend the night in the Forbidden Forest. James remembers it seemed a brilliant adventure at the time. It was also bloody cold. Remus coached them for half an hour about twigs and dry wood and creating "a sort of pyramid," until Sirius finally tossed aside his soggy sticks and declared he was not going to freeze his arse off for the sake of some bloody Muggle tradition. They got a fire started pretty quickly after that. The four of them huddled around the heat, shoulder to shoulder, and James rubbed Sirius's frozen hands between his own until they thawed.

Where is Sirius?

Maybe this is some sort of power play. Maybe Sirius is trying to demonstrate that he still has some control over the situation. Maybe he is being jealous

_("I am not some second-rate whore to be fucked when you've nothing better to do, James!")_

and childish, trying to prove a point.

But, no. Sirius may be hotheaded, but even he would not be so thoughtless. Not in these dark days.

Sometime later, the embers grow cold in the fireplace. James doesn't notice.

Lily finds him in the morning, exhausted and ill with anxiety. She hauls him out of his chair and marches him to the kitchen, plunking him down at the table and telling him he's not to leave the room until he's got some food in him.

She hums as she prepares breakfast, occasionally cooing at Harry, who happily babbles in return. James stares at her back, loose waves of red hair swimming before his eyes.

"He's fine, James," Lily says, pouring the water for tea. "He's probably off in some girl's bed, sleeping off the worst hangover he's ever had. You know Sirius." She tosses him a smile over her shoulder. Her eyes are dark and frightened.

_Pads,_

_Where the fuck are you?_

_Prongs_

His hands are remarkably steady as he ties the parchment to his owl's leg. He opens the window, welcoming the brisk November air, and watches the bird soar off in the direction of Sirius's flat.

It returns hours later, message still tied tight around its leg.

Dumbledore's reply comes within hours.

_Come to Hogwarts immediately. Floo directly to my office. I will be waiting._

Dumbledore looks terribly, terribly tired.

"I'm sorry, James."

The world has gone black. Thoughts flash across his mind, sharp against the blur.

He thinks, _But I love him._

He thinks, _I hope he's dead._

He thinks, _Sirius._

That's all he can manage before his stomach wrenches and the world is over.

**ii.**

James cannot get out of bed today.

_("Prongs. Oi, Prongs. I know you're awake, you great git. Now get up and make me breakfast.")_

(Lily calls them his Tired Days, for Harry's sake. "Daddy's having one of his Tired Days, darling," she says, steering their son back into the hallway. "We should let him rest."

If she were inclined to be accurate, she would call them his Tired Grieving Sobbing Guilt-Stricken Days. But perhaps Harry is not quite ready for that information.)

He does not think of his family—not of his lovely patient wife, or his bright young son. He does not think of his friends—of Remus, wasting away in the face of the approaching full moon. He does not think of the Order, or of his dead parents, or of himself.

It has been five years since Sirius disappeared, and today James cannot live with that.

Remus will not

_(cannot)_

tell him what he found that night.

(He says he only intended to check up on Sirius, who had been whining that he was bored and lonely. James wonders at this. He knows that Sirius did not trust Remus, and knows that he never told their friend his new address. He knows, but doesn't ask, and he wonders.)

The most he will say is that Sirius surely put up a fight.

Remus will not speak of the wreckage and destruction he must have found—the blood-streaked dents in the walls, the shattered glass, the splintered wood.

James has seen it many times, the devastation that the Death Eaters leave in their wake

_(air heavy with lingering power and desperate ferocity)_

and he has nightmares about what Remus does not say.

Some days he regrets never seeing the flat for himself—but most of the time, he is grateful, and he is ashamed for it. Sirius is dead

_(please, please)_

and the least he deserves is for James to be driven mad with grief.

He does regret that he never got a chance to kill Peter. Peter, the fucking traitorous rat, who found out Sirius was the Secret-Keeper and wasted no time turning him over to Voldemort.

(It makes James sick—that they didn't know, for so long. For years, the murderer cursed and wept and mourned with them. The Marauders grieved together for three years before the rat was revealed.)

In the end, it was Snape who identified Peter as the traitor. Snape, no doubt fresh from Voldemort's lair, with innocent blood still wet on his hands—it was he who told Dumbledore what Peter had done, the price he had paid for Voldemort's favor.

It's been two years since Snape began spying for the Order, and James still trusts him no further than he can hex him. But the man was right about Peter. James can only pray that he is equally truthful about other subjects.

_("He's dead. It's been a long time. We—they broke him, but they could never make him talk. The Dark Lord eventually got tired of him. It was useless trying to get information from him, at that point. By the end, he spoke nothing but nonsense.")_

Snape. Peter. Sirius.

James lies still in bed, trying desperately not to think. Normal life seems an impossible goal, distant and unthinkable. He is shaken at the mere thought of getting out of bed, of dressing

_(tempting stretch of denim across tight flesh, worn jeans riding dangerously low on narrow hips)_

and going downstairs and smiling for his loving, waiting family.

He loves them, Lily and Harry—fiercely and without reservation. Lily is everything he ever hoped for in a wife, and more; their son is the light of his life.

But he does not have to wonder whether it was worth the trade—his best friend

_("There is no one compares with you…")_

for his family. He already knows the answer.

James cannot get out of bed today.

**iii.**

It is only a dog.

James thinks it over and over again, _just a dog only a dog just a dog not not not_, but he cannot stop staring at the body lying crumpled in the street.

It is only a dog, filthy and skeletal—a bony black outline against the pavement. From this distance, he cannot discern a breathing pattern. It is probably dead. Merlin only knows where it came from, or how it ended up here.

_("I'm sorry. Fuck. I'm a mess. I don't mean to—fuck, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. D'you want me to go?")_

It is only a dog—but what if? What if it is alive? What if it needs help? What if it—but, no. It is not.

But what if it was?

Something powerful is breaking in his chest, restless and anguished and hopeful, and he leans against the doorframe and struggles for breath.

_("Mrs. Potter—just the face I was hoping to see! Looking lovely as always, of course. Yes, I would love to come in, thank you. James makes a terrible welcoming committee, you know, but he's your son, so I suppose there's hope for him yet.")_

And then there is a hand on his shoulder, and a voice. Harry. "Dad? Are you all right?" The boy sounds concerned.

_It's all right, Harry_, he tries to say, but his mouth is dry. _Come, let's go back in the house._

_It is only a dog_, he tries to say, but the words will not come.

"Dad? Do you need me to get Mum?"

He shakes his head, _No._ Not Lily. Not yet.

Why does he linger? He is waiting for something—for the dog to move, to stand, to change

_(matted black fur melting into bone-white flesh, long brittle limbs, sharp slice of bone against transparent skin)_

or disappear. But the dog is only a dog, probably dead. All the waiting in the world won't change that.

_And if it did?_

What of his family? What of his life? It is not, but if it was—what then? Everything would change. He might give up everything—and for what?

_(broken skeleton of a long-lost lover)_

_(tortured ghost of a ruined man)_

_(bare echo of a life long abandoned)_

Surely he is not willing to pay that price.

"Dad?"

Surely.

The dog shudders, suddenly—a twitch of black fur, barely visible from this distance. The barest jerk of a shaggy head, thudding hard against the pavement. A soft, nearly inaudible sound halfway between a whimper and a whine.

Harry's voice is louder, now, calling to him, but James doesn't hear. He is already running.


	7. A little sincerity is a dangerous thing

See first part for notes about this collection of stories.

Disclaimer: I am but a poor college student. Please don't sue me.

"_A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal."_

"Fuck—"

"Bloody—"

"Go!"

Their shoes squeak as they scramble around the corner, and James cringes. They really can't afford to get caught tonight. Filch has been exceptionally suspicious lately; if he finds them, he'll flay them alive.

"There," he hisses, "quick, the statue—" and in a flurry of pushing and pulling and muffled cursing, he and Sirius manage to wedge themselves behind the stately figure of Salazar Slytherin.

"Oof," Sirius grunts, panting for breath. "Haven't been stuck here for ages. Don't think we fit quite as well as we used to."

"It'll do," James whispers back. He eyes the corridor with distrust, waiting for their pursuer to catch up with them.

The two stand motionless behind the statue, dripping, as their heartbeats gradually return to normal.

No one appears.

Finally, James ducks his head out, casting a wary glance up and down the hall before pulling back. "I don't see anything. Maybe we lost her."

"Bloody likely," Sirius mutters sarcastically. He shifts uncomfortably, restless as always. "If that damn cat gets us caught again, I'll wring her neck."

"We could always frame the Slytherins for it," James suggests, though he is quickly losing track of the conversation. Sirius wriggles again, and James is becoming dangerously aware of the hard press of Sirius's body against his.

_Focus, James._

Sirius shrugs. "We'd have to. Can't get detention now, with the match on Saturday."

_The match._ James swears under his breath. If Filch catches them—

Sirius snickers. "Terribly irresponsible, you know, getting yourself benched for the Gryffindor-Slytherin match. Really, as captain, you ought to know better."

James glares at him, to no effect. "I ought to know better than to keep _you_ on the team. Anyway, we're not going to get caught. That is, if you think you can keep your daft comments to yourself for a few minutes."

"I'll do my best, _mon capitaine_."

Irritating as Sirius is, that polished French accent

_(lingering legacy of a Black childhood)_

is as seductive as always. James takes a moment to debate over whether to hit him or ravish him senseless. He decides to do both. Later.

Silence descends. James listens intently for any signs of trouble, but hears nothing—not the familiar skulking footsteps of the caretaker, nor the stealthy clicking of feline claws. Perhaps they have escaped notice, after all. A minute more, maybe two, and they can chance a dash for the Tower. _Should've brought the Map._ He sighs. _Should've brought the _Cloak

"Ugh." Sirius squirms again, before finally he relaxes, slumping between the wall and James. The two of them are joined at hip, flank, shoulder—seamed together in a jumble of muscle and wet cloth. They are still soaked, and the cool drafts of air down the corridor are like icy winds on James's damp skin. At least the union of their bodies has created a welcome bit of heat.

James presses just a bit closer, and breathes in. He should not think Sirius smells good. Sirius ought to reek—and, indeed, he does. He stinks of fish and lake water and wet dog. And yet, somehow, underneath all that is the lingering scent of Sirius. Spicy. Warm. Sexual.

James wants him. He is too tired and too cold to investigate the thought, to explore the complicated layers of friendship and possessiveness and hunger. He knows only that Sirius is there, hard and soft and more alluring than he has any right to look, considering the circumstances—and James wants him, possibly more than he has ever wanted anything

_(brooms, adventure, the Cup, Lily's smile)_

in his entire life.

Before he realizes his mouth is moving, he says, "I think I might be in love with you."

Oh.

Sirius is going to kill him. No—no, Sirius is going to tease him to death. Once Moony and Wormtail hear of this, James will never be able to set foot in Hogwarts again. Word will spread that the great James Potter is swooning for his best mate, and he will be laughed out of every classroom, common room, and locker room. His life is over.

James considers finding Filch and begging for a year's worth of detention. Scrubbing trophies, cleaning bedpans—anything to keep him away from Sirius and his mockery—

"James."

_Bugger._

"James, look at me."

Sirius's face is shadowed and indistinct. He is not laughing. He is not even smiling.

_Merlin. He really is going to kill me._

"James," Sirius says very sternly, "I am hiding from a cat in the middle of the night."

Flashing silver eyes study James's face to make sure he has absorbed this.

"So far tonight, I've almost drowned, nearly frozen to death, and barely escaped being throttled by a giant squid, all because you thought a midnight dip in the lake would be a great adventure." He pauses, ever conscious of dramatics. "At the moment, I happen to be stuck in a compromising position between you, the wall, and a statue of Slytherin, of all the bloody wizards. We're both drenched, and I for one am freezing my bollocks off."

Sirius stops again, this time for breath. His face is beginning to flush with heat, a sign that he is warming to his topic.

"Also you should know that you look like a right idiot. Your glasses are all foggy, and your stupid hair is going everywhere, and, and if you don't kiss me in the next ten seconds, I'm going to fucking kill you."

James stares at him, bewildered, unsure whether to be terrified or aroused.

Sirius flicks a strand of wet hair from his eyes, and sighs. His voice is deliberately casual. "If this isn't love, I've gone completely round the bend."

There is a long, heavy pause—and then James laughs, a great whoosh of relief and surprise and barely-concealed lust. There is a gleam of teeth in the darkness as Sirius finally cracks a smile, looking rather too pleased with himself for James's taste.

Twisting in the narrow space, James reaches up and captures Sirius's face, smooth skin chilled and clammy under his hands, icy lips curved in a self-satisfied grin. His fingers twine in cold, wet locks of black hair, tugging gently, and water drips down his fingers as Sirius's mouth opens under his.

James Potter is not known for his patience, but the situation calls for a diligent attention to detail. Anything less than absolute thoroughness would be unseemly, and so he bites and licks and sucks the smirk from the other boy's face until Sirius moans into his mouth and arches against him.

They never do make it back to the Tower.


	8. Epilogue

See first part for notes about this collection of stories.

Disclaimer: I am but a poor college student. Please don't sue me.

Note: So we've arrived at the epilogue to this vaguely connected collection of stories. Hope you've enjoyed yourselves. If you want to leave a review letting me know what you thought of the whole she-bang, that would be swell.

"_If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life."_

**i.**

"_Take a sad song and make it better…"_

Sirius thinks his parents would probably die if they saw him now—lightheaded with firewhiskey

_(wretched stuff, Altair always said—cheap and vulgar)_

and sprawled half-naked in another boy's bed. He is drunk and oblivious, relaxed, aware only of James's hand in his hair and the soft Muggle music the other boy is singing. Hardly fitting behavior for a son of the House of Black. The thought makes him smile.

The firewhiskey has made him drowsy, and he closes his eyes, content to lie with his head on James's stomach and listen to the low, pleasant sound of James's voice.

_Don't be afraid…_

(James stumbled across Muggle music during fifth year; yet another highlight of the hitherto unsuccessful courtship of Lily Evans. Sirius thinks most of the music is shit, but he keeps his peace, since James seems to be genuinely fond of it. Some of it isn't so bad, anyway. Sirius has come to tolerate The Beatles, though he still doesn't understand James's fascination with them.)

James plays idly with Sirius's hair as he sings—toying with the long strands that fall into his face, scratching lazily behind his ears. Sirius's scalp tingles. He thinks about purring.

_Don't carry the world upon your shoulders…_

James's hand slides down Sirius's neck to glide warm and steady over his skin, fingers splayed between his shoulder blades. Sirius hums low in his throat, and James's stomach shakes beneath Sirius's head as he laughs.

_Remember to let her into your heart…_

James's hand lingers at the base of Sirius's neck, soothing in its gentle possessiveness. Sirius nuzzles just a bit into the soft skin of James's stomach, and long fingers tighten on his nape.

Sirius allows himself to think, as he drifts into oblivion, that he has never been happier.

**ii.**

Even as he opens the door, Sirius pretends that he does not know who is on the other side.

James looks unusually serious, tonight—subdued, somehow. He offers no excuses, no pretexts, not even his usual roguish, arrogant smile. He simply stands there, staring. Sirius stares back.

"Lennon's dead, you know."

Sirius nods. "I know."

They look at each other for a moment more

_(for well you know that it's a fool)_

before finally Sirius reaches out and pulls the other man into the flat.

Later, curled in his bed with James's arm heavy over his hip, Sirius cries—for John, for The Beatles, for the stupid Muggle music he never even liked. James crawls up his body, pressing close underneath the flimsy covers, and covers his face with gentle kisses.

James is warm and solid against him. James's mouth is wet and salty on his, and Sirius cries for genius, for ruined love, for a legend cut short.

James sings as he brushes his lips against Sirius's chin

_let it out and let it in_

jaw

_waiting for someone to perform with_

eyelids

_and don't you know that it's just you_

and somehow the lullaby has become a dirge, and Sirius cries until there is nothing left.

**iii.**

The nights are the worst.

Most nights, he dreams of Azkaban. It is terrible and frightening and brutal—and, too, it is familiar. He knows well the tender mercies of the dementors. He suffers at their hands

_(moaning weeping shattered, icy pull in his hollow chest)_

but it is infinitely worse to wake in the haunting darkness of Grimmauld Place.

_("I'll kill you before I let you go back there.")_

The bedchamber looms dark and imposing; it is a cage, trapping him within the shadows of his memories. The tapestries and portraits are gone from the walls, but their spirits linger. The house is full of ghosts—Regulus and Altair and Araminta, cousins and uncles and long-dead ancestors, headless house-elves still groveling in pools of their own blood. The air is heavy and oppressive with their frozen breath, and they torture him—plaguing him with childhood nightmares

_(bony fingers digging into his skin, wild gray eyes, cold stone against his back)_

and regret

_("You idiot—don't you know you're on the wrong fucking side?")_

and unease.

He dreams.

He is on the floor, shuddering and trembling, lost in pain. He cannot think, cannot breathe, but Regulus is prodding him, hissing his name. Regulus curses and grunts as he pulls him roughly from the floor, _got to get out of here_, and they are running.

He staggers through the dark passageways, his brother's arm tight around his waist, but the pain is too much, and he stumbles. He is falling—Regulus is gone, and he hits the floor, fingers scrabbling for purchase across the stones.

Pain. Cold. Shadows.

_I am not afraid_, he insists, and a Quidditch-roughened hand smoothes back his hair, cups his head, trails faintly down his cheek with the delicate flutter of butterfly wings.

"_You were made to go out and get her…"_

"I hope you're rotting in hell," he says, groping in the darkness. "Don't you fucking leave me again, you bastard."

He dreams of hazel eyes, soft whispered music in his ear, warm fingers slipping from his grasp, and he wakes up choking.

**iv.**

Mornings are awkward.

Months of arguments and shared company have resulted in an uneasy companionship. Molly never fails to bid him good morning and offer breakfast, but her smile is tight and guarded, as if half-expecting him to lash out.

Sirius does not attempt to ease her fears. He usually grunts in greeting and waves away her offer of tea. Instead he makes his own coffee, slamming cupboards and adding a few clandestine splashes from hidden bottles when Molly's back is turned. The coffee is strong, and he drinks it black and scalding, gasping as it burns down his throat with the bittersweet taste of firewhiskey.

Following their pathetic morning ritual, Sirius and Molly do their best to ignore each other as they go about sorting out the dark mysteries of the House of Black. Molly is efficient, and dedicated to her task. She only rarely needs his assistance, generally when she encounters a particularly nasty or intricate curse set in place by one of his more creative ancestors. For his part, Sirius does little to seek her out. After all, he has not forgotten what she said to him.

_He's not James, Sirius!_

He knows that she meant well. Probably she genuinely believes that she is protecting Harry—protecting them both, maybe. He is not blind. He can see that she cares for Harry like her own child. Given time, he could forgive her for that.

But he cannot forgive her for those words.

_He's not James, Sirius!_

So exasperated, condescending—as if speaking to a child. As if Sirius needed it all explained to him. As if he truly could not understand that Harry was not his father.

_James is dead_, she might well have said. _Dead and gone. You've lost him forever, you sorry bastard, and you won't ever get him back, no matter what you do._

As if he doesn't know.

**v.**

scarlet crimson blood wine blinding

sharp pureblood features twisted in madness hatred triumph

rush of air past his ears

Harry's stunned face pale under rumpled black hair

Remus Moony thin scarred alone

pounding throbbing pressure in his chest

falling flying weightless undone

warmth

grasping hands blazing heat around his waist

_don't let me down_

final flutter of the veil before his eyes

and

"_Nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are one's mistakes."_

_-Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde, Irish playwright_


End file.
